Fool
by willowscribe
Summary: Fool. The word echoes through my head, resounding, steadfast. I'm nothing but a fool.


**Well, I had to read 13 Reasons Why for my health class, and I loved the book. I'm not a crier, but I do enjoy a healthy dose of angst, so I was quite glad we had to read it. I just finished it today, and my muse sprung to life, leaving us this little ficlet, from the perspective of an anonymous student, contemplating Hannah's death. Also, I wasn't sure what the name of the Peer Communications teacher was, so I just made it a her. If I'm wrong, please correct me. Anyhow, enjoy! Remember to review!**

**Disclaimer: Thirteen Reasons Why is not mine.**

_Fool_**  
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Fool.

The word echoes through my head, resounding, steadfast.

I'm nothing but a fool.

I didn't know Hannah Baker. I didn't care to. Her reputation preceded her. She and I shared two classes, Peer Communications and Spanish. It wasn't hard to avoid her in either. Peer Communications was mostly open discussion time, nothing like real classwork, and everyone took Spanish, so I had a plethora of partners before her to choose for projects.

Now that I think back on it, everyone pretty much thought the same way I did.

Hannah was a slut, a whore. She let boys touch her, and she seduced them to touch her. She'd been all the way and back again and everyone knew it.

Everyone knew it. Foolish words, really. Everyone knew it. Knew what? The truth? A creative lie? A rumor? A tongue-slip?

What, exactly, did everyone know?

No one knew Hannah, that's for sure.

I'd only spoken to her once. We usually didn't sit near to each other – teachers assigned our seats alphabetically, and my G was nowhere near her B. But one day in Spanish, we got to pick our partners for a bit of practice at dialogue. As usual, I paired up with one of my friends, a girl named Celene. Hannah was left alone, eyes scanning the room with a bit of a panicked look, and I remember all too well the crushing sadness that clouded her eyes as she realized no one wanted to be her partner. As always, when partners are picked, there are a few leftovers. Usually, the teacher will take them and publicly assign them their partners as a special kind of humiliating torture. It was only for Hannah that the leftovers voluntarily paired up, leaving her standing alone, the odd one out.

I wondered why no one wanted to be her partner for a moment as she stood there, gazing over the sea of heads. Surely one of the druggies would be willing to partner up with her?

No one.

Finally, the teacher came over and partnered herself up with Hannah. Of course, being partnered with the teacher is quite possibly even worse than having your partner assigned because no one wants you. Being paired with the teacher is beyond humiliating. It's just pathetic.

As Celene and I began to practice our dialogue, I accidentally knocked my pencil off my desk. Hannah, who was sitting next to me and refusing to meet anyone's eye, bent over and grabbed it for me.

"Thanks," I muttered as she handed it to me, hiding behind a shroud of long hair. Hannah said nothing, but nodded curtly to let me know she had heard.

That was all I'd ever said to her.

Of course, that wasn't all I'd ever said _about_ her. Everyone knew what Hannah had been up to, and if you didn't, you were hopelessly out of the loop. Or lived under a rock. Or both. So of course, people talked. There was nothing like a good scandal to liven up a discussion at a lunch table.

I gossiped about Hannah, I'll admit. I'm not the only one. But it never stood out in particular to me, because it was just something to talk about. So when the conversation died, someone might say, "Did you hear what Hannah did this weekend?" just like someone might say, "God, I have a huge project due tomorrow, and I haven't even started!"

It was life. It was normal, and ordinary, and simple, and easy.

I wonder what Hannah thought?

She never had a group to sit with at lunch. The sluts didn't seem to. The nerds and preps and band kids all found friends; the druggies, the gamers, and the popular crowd, they found each other too. But the sluts never seemed to have a home. They didn't fit into one niche nicely like others might. And, for whatever reason, there was never a group of them. Maybe they were all too catty to handle one another? Who knew? No one really thought about it.

It was just life.

Peer Communications was an interesting class. I suppose the best word to describe it would be "zen." All the desks in the room were arranged in a large circle, so everyone was facing everyone. There was no assigned seating either, but everyone managed to claim a particular desk anyway. And there was potential for bloodshed if you stole someone's desk. I should know. Cindy Adams slapped another girl, nails bared, when she stole her seat to sit next to a particular boy.

Our teacher is also pretty cool. She generally lets us discuss whatever we choose to discuss. We can even leave anonymous suggestions for a topic. Peer Communications is basically having the class talk as a group about anything.

I always enjoyed Peer Communications, mainly because I'm a pretty opinionated person. It's my time to open up.

I remember the discussion we had about suicide. I didn't talk as much as I usually do during that one, because I was mentally going over my classmates. Who could be considering suicide? No one stood out in particular.

Now, after the fact, it couldn't have been more obvious.

My stomach still twists every time I think of that discussion. Of my fellow peers' demands to know who had sent the letter. I didn't understand why they'd insist on that knowledge. If _I _was considering something as private as suicide, would I want to tell my whole Peer Communications class? Of course not!

I'm sure everyone in that room had skeletons in their closets. I know I have mine. And know that I would never, _ever_ consider telling anyone about my past experiences. I'm certain others, with their own skeletons, would agree.

Every time I reflect on that discussion, I go over every word I said – and every word I didn't say. Would any of it have made a difference? Would any of it have saved Hannah Baker's life?

The answer is probably no. But I'll never really be able to know, will I?

Whenever I walk into Peer Communications, I spy Hannah's empty desk from across the room, left vacant, as if it was something sacred and holy. No one's tried to claim it yet, not even to sit next to one of the more attractive boys in the class. They prefer to be called men now, but they're just boys. We're all just children, really.

I wouldn't be able to sit next to Hannah Baker's empty desk every day and know that somehow, some way, something I might have said could have saved Hannah's life. I wouldn't be able to handle it.

And that's that.

So where does this leave us? What lessons have been learned?

I can tell you one thing I've gotten out of all this.

Are you ready?

Are you sure?

Are you absolutely sure?

Okay then.

Here it is.

Fool.


End file.
